


Love

by Seefin



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, POV Simon, Safe n consensual sex 4ever, the title is very descriptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seefin/pseuds/Seefin
Summary: I put my hand into his hair and card through it. It’s soft and fine and he does that awful thing he does where he leans into it, nudges his head a bit closer to my palm. It’s awful in the way something you probably can’t live without is awful. It’s awful how much I want him to do it every single moment for the rest of our lives.





	

“Imagine a battlefield,” Baz says, in that wonderful voice of his, and I do. I really can’t _help it,_ if I'm being honest. “Not the kind of battlefield they had in England,” he tells me, as though he can see what I’m thinking, that episode of Game of Thrones we watched together a few weeks ago with grass churned up into mud, and grey skies, and probably the smell of wet earth.

“What kind?” I say.

“A dusty one,” he continues, “One where it hasn’t rained in a very long time. One where if you were fighting you would get hot, and sweat would stream into your eyes, and the dry dirt would stick to your body.”

I open my eyes and he’s not looking at me, but down at the book in front of him instead. “Baz,” I say, “That doesn’t sound like the Wars of the Roses.”

His eyes snap upwards and settle on my face, even the weight of them makes me want to blush. Sometimes I wonder if he looks at my red cheeks and imagines what it would be like to able to do that himself. I wonder if he wonders what it feels like.

“I’m reading ahead a few chapters,” he says, with a guilty smile. “It’s always best to be prepared.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Baz,” I say, “ _Baz_. What did we say about this?”

He shoots me a stern look, the type that makes my belly feel all warm and fluttery and kind of like I’ve got golden syrup in my veins instead of blood. “I’m not going to _repeat it,_ ” he says to me.

“We said,” I say for him, “We _said_ that if you’re helping me revise then you can’t just skip ahead to what you think is interesting.”

He sniffs, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone else except from him do that before. “The rest of it’s boring. _History_ is boring.”

“I don’t think it’s boring,” I tell him, because it’s true. I thought I _would,_ obviously, when I signed up to university with absolutely no idea of what I wanted to do, when history seemed as good an idea as any. It surprised me though, snuck up on me. I like hearing about what people used to eat and wear and think about, it makes me feel sometimes like I’m part of something big. That feeling -that _part-of-something_ feeling- sort of disappeared when my magic did. I’ve been trying to find it again.

“I know,” Baz drawls, “It blows my mind on a daily basis.” He’s sat cross-legged on the end of my bed, his lovely long legs hidden from my view underneath a soft blanket. He doesn’t say what he might say if we were in bed properly, and it was nighttime, and we were touching each other. He doesn’t say _sometimes when you’re being annoying I look at you and think how lucky I am that I’m here to see it._ I know he’s thinking it though, or some variation of it. His eyes go a little crinkled at the corner when he’s thinking something nice about me. We don’t live together but sometimes I think about what it would be like if we did, and then I think that one day we probably will and it leaves me all gooey inside.

He closes the book with a slap that makes me jump a bit, and one of my wings brushes against the lampshade on the bedside table. When I’m inside the flat I usually keep them out, it’s a lot more comfortable than spelling them so they fold down against my back. They always get all itchy and constricted-feeling at the end of the day and Penelope once said it sounded like when she wants to take her bra off as soon as she comes home, but I don’t know.

“Let’s go out for dinner,” Baz suggests, flicking a little strand of hair out of his eyes.

“I think Pen’s going out for dinner,” I tell him, trying to say _Penelope will be out of the house_ without making it obvious what I want to do.

“Let’s stay in then,” he sighs, flopping backwards onto my bed and unfolding his legs, “We can have sex.”

“Baz,” I admonish, blushing even more, even though I was basically thinking the exact same thing. Sometimes I get shy about the oddest things.

“You were thinking it too,” he replies, and _how does he do that?_ “Have you got condoms?”

“Yeah,” I reply, giving up with the pretense. We want each other, there’s no point not being desperately obvious about it. “I went out this morning.”

He hums in satisfaction and wriggles around in the bed until his head is on my thigh. He’s always trying to touch me, and I’d probably find it odd if I didn’t like it so much. Every time he comes into a room it takes about thirty seconds before he’s at my side, with his hand on my waist or his hand in my hand or his head on my shoulder. Penelope and I had a party last week and we invited our friends from uni and Baz sat on my _lap_ about halfway through it. He did it and then it was like he reconsidered immediately after and started to pull away, but I told him I liked it and I think if he _could_ blush then he would have then. I like him when I’m a little tipsy. I mean, I like him all the time, _obviously,_ but I like how he sometimes says things that he thinks I might not remember in the morning. Stuff about how I’m his favourite person on the planet, stuff about how he wants to kiss every single part of my body.

I remember though, and I don’t know how someone could forget something like that.

I put my hand into his hair and card through it. It’s soft and fine and he does that awful thing he does where he leans into it, nudges his head a bit closer to my palm. It’s awful in the way something you probably can’t live without is awful. It’s awful how much I want him to do it every single moment for the rest of our lives.

“That feels nice,” he murmurs, and I can’t stop now even if I wanted to.

“I love you,” I tell him, because we tell each other that all the time now and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of hearing how his breath hitches when I say it. As though he’s surprised, every single time, that I even _could._

“Oh,” he says, “I love you too.” He puts his arms around my leg and tightens them until he’s hugging me. “I _suppose_ I love you too,” he tells me, as though it’s some great chore.

He says that like he doesn’t sometimes roll me on top of him and slide down the bed until his ear is under my heart, like he doesn’t say _I like hearing you, I like feeling your weight, I like the reminder that you’re here._ He says _I love you_ as though he wasn’t the one who said it first, when we were on the tube on the way home from a bar on the other side of the city. Like he didn’t just widen his eyes when we were mid-way through a conversation about favourite fruits and say _Simon, I’m in love with you._

“Come up here,” I say, and tug on the material of his jumper until he’s crawling up the bed to rest his head on the pillow beside mine. I look at him, his long nose, the arch of his cheekbones, his pale skin you can just _tell_ used to be warm and golden. Warmer and more golden than mine. His eyes are the worst, depending on your definition of _worst._ Worst because they sometimes hurt me. You know when there’s a thing you love, and thinking about it sends this ache of pain through your heart? That’s what his eyes do to me, when they get that look in them as though he’s wondering what it was he did to end up here. Once he asked me what he did to deserve me.

“Kiss me,” I tell him, because knowing Baz he would honestly just be content to watch me for a few hours in silence. He gets intense sometimes.

He listens to me though, because the next thing I know his long fingers are on my cheeks, lightly, touching me like I’m something that might shatter if he presses too hard. I put my hand over his and apply pressure, so that his fingertips are firm against the soft skin over my cheekbones. I want to feel him. What’s the point if I can’t feel him? He looks at me like he gets the message.

“Come on,” I say, and I’m smiling, “Kiss me.”

His lips are cold when they touch mine but I really can’t bring myself to care. They always heat up anyway, once we’ve been kissing for long enough. I part my lips and bite down a bit on his bottom lip, really softly, the way I know he likes it.

We kiss until my lips have gone numb. He shuffles closer and closer to me until our bodies are flush against one another, and I’m sure he can feel how hard I am but it seems like we’re both ignoring it for the time being. I put my hands on his shoulders and inhale him. His breath, the skin under his chin, his hair. After a while I start panting for breath and he starts kissing my neck, and it should be terrifying but it isn’t, because his hands are steady on my waist and his mouth is wet and moist and his lips are warm where they’ve absorbed the heat from my skin.

I feel like I could fall asleep from this, the way he puts his hands into my hair and pulls gently, murmuring against my cheek about _curls_ and _soft. Baz_ is soft, and it was a shock at first but now it seems obvious. He’s so gentle, everything he does he does like he wants me to be taken care of. I slide my hand over his hip until it rests in the small of his back, drinking in the way he’s lazily pushing his lips against mine, without any urgency, without any hurry.

I hear Penny leave the house some indeterminable time later and I can hardly find my voice to shout _goodbye_ to her. Baz winces when I do, and I dig my fingertips into his shoulder blades softly, apologetically.

“Mm,” he mumbles, “Bunce is gone.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, “Whatever will we do?”

He rolls me onto my back, mindful of the way my wings sometimes get crushed underneath my body.

“What do you want to do?” he asks me, kneeling between my parted legs, his hair dishevelled and messy, his shirt already discarded. I shift on the mattress, my erection straining inside my jeans. His trousers are tented slightly and all can focus on is _him_ , and how much I want him to _touch me._

“I don’t mind,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. “Everything’s fun.”

“Alright,” he says, with a grin that makes me a little nervous. “How about I go through the options?”

I nod because I’m incapable of doing anything else.

“Simon,” he prompts, “I’m going to go through the options.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, already wriggling, already anticipating. “Yeah. Yes. Yep. Do that.”

He smiles, a curve that splits his face, makes it something lighter and happier. “You’re lovely,” he tells me, and I melt. “So we could do this,” he continues, unzipping my jeans and pulling them down slowly. I try not to blush at the way my dick is peeking out of the top of my pants, red and flushed and dripping, but I do a little bit, even though I know I shouldn’t. Baz leans forward until his mouth is right over my erection and starts tonguing at the white fabric, so as I can _just_ feel it. He puts both hands on my boxers and pulls at them, until they slip down my legs and end up on the floor with my trousers.

I try and feel weird about the fact that he’s almost fully clothed and I’m laid out like this, naked in front of him, but I can’t. He never makes me feel anything less than safe anymore.

“Baz,” I whisper, when he takes my erection in his hand and starts wanking me slowly, too slowly for it to provide any relief. It just makes me want _more,_ more of _this,_ more of _him._ “Baz.” He tightens his fist and pulls my foreskin up over the head of my dick, then down again, and I can’t help but arch my hips.

“I have a suggestion,” he says, clearing his throat halfway through. He’s still got his hand on my dick and he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me. “I think you should fuck me. Because I prepared for it earlier, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” I say, because we’ve done it before but not very often, have only very recently graduated to the _putting our dicks inside each other_ part of our sex lives. “Yeah. Definitely let’s do that.”

“You have lube?” he asks me, and I just level him with this look that’s like _what kind of a question is that?_ He rolls his eyes. “Where is it?”

“Drawer,” I tell him, gesturing vaguely to my bedside table.

“Simon,” he says, and I suddenly remember what I put in there a couple of days ago. “Have you used this?” he asks, pulling out the lube, and couple of condoms, and a dildo that I bought online. It’s purple because the flesh coloured ones make me feel uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “It’s good.”

“It’s big,” he replies, widening his eyes and putting a single fingertip on the purple head of the dildo. “I don’t know if I’d like that.”

I watch him, and the way he bites his lip, and the serious look on his face as he examines my sex toy. “I love you,” I tell him, because I can’t really hold it in. Sometimes he does things like this, that just make me want to make sure he knows how I feel about him.

“I love you too,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“And I like it,” I continue, “But it’s not for everyone.”

“I want you to show me you using it,” he blurts out, and this is another of those _blushing_ moments. I raise my eyebrows and prop myself up onto my elbow.

“Now?”

“No,” he says, “Now I want you to fuck me, but another time.”

“Yeah alright,” I say easily, I’d give him anything. “Whenever.”

He whimpers a bit at that and I take the dildo off him before he malfunctions or something, throwing it back in the drawer. “How do you want to do it?” I ask him, sitting up now.

He rubs the back of his hand over his bottom lip. “On my front,” he decides, and strips off his trousers and pants in one quick motion, lying down before I can get a proper glimpse of his dick. I’ve seen it too many times to count but it’s honestly my favourite one in the world. It’s long and thick and leans a little to the right when he’s properly hard, framed by dark, wiry hair.

“Here,” he says, and hands me the lube, “Warm it up a little.”

I pump some into my hand and rub it between my fingers. I chose it myself, it was the most expensive one in the shop, because I didn’t really know what to buy but I wanted it to feel as good as possible for both of us.

“Is this okay?” I ask, nudging his leg up until his cheeks are spread and I can see his hole, dark and crinkled and looking a lot like something that’s much too small to fit a penis inside.

“Yeah,” he huffs, and then puts his hands behind him and onto his arse, exposing himself more. “Try touching me.”

I smile, even though I know he can’t see me, and put my index finger against his arsehole, feeling the soft skin at his entrance. I rest it there for a moment or two, letting him get used to it, before I push slowly inside, tiny movements that let him adjust. I can feel his muscles rippling around my finger and I have to take my other hand off my cock where I've been wanking myself. I try not to come imagining what that’s going to feel like around me.

“You’re doing so well,” I tell him, and he snorts unattractively.

“I know,” he says, “I’m brilliant at this, you don’t need to tell me.”

“Do you want another one yet?” I ask him, thrusting in and out softly, until he starts moaning quietly.

“Yes,” he agrees, “Another, find my prostate.”

I laugh, because he’s often demanding and it’s such a familiar feeling. I press another digit into him, so slowly, until he’s circling his hips back against me. I crook my fingers, trying for a few minutes to find that place inside of him that makes him cry out. He groans when I do, impatiently, and his whole body twitches. “That’s it,” he says, as if I can’t already tell. “Stay there.”

I press against it firmly, because that’s what he loves, and feel a little sad about the fact that his cock is hidden underneath him, about the fact that I can’t see it jerking with pleasure, leaking onto his stomach.

“Simon,” he says, breathless, when I brush against his prostate. “Another finger now.”

I do what he says, wriggling it in, using more and more lube, until I have three fingers buried deep inside him. “Oh,” he says, like it’s a surprise. “ _Oh.”_

“Do you want to come?” I ask him, and I’m shocked at the way he says _no._

“Want to come with you inside me,” he says, cutting out words like they’re too much effort.

“I am inside you,” I tell him, moving my fingers until he starts grunting into the pillow underneath his head.

“You know what I _mean,_ ” he says, but it lacks venom.

“Do you want more of this?” I ask him, although I’m not sure _I_ could take more of this. I love the way he looks, spread out on his front. I love the way my fingers look, halfway into his slick hole.

“No,” he says, “I want your dick in me.”

I laugh a little at how blunt he’s being, because it’s so far removed from what he’s normally like. All controlled and calculating and cool.

He turns over and I forget to breathe for a moment. He’s left a dark patch on the mattress where his dick has been pressed against it, weeping as I fingered him. “Simon,” he says, and I realise I’m definitely staring at him. “Are you okay?”

“God,” I say, “Yeah.”

“Come here,” he says, repeating my words from earlier, and pulls me down onto him. I exhale all my breath in a sharp rush, the end of my wings bounce against the bed, once.

We kiss for a while, hot and wanting, until neither of us can wait and he pulls two pillows down to shove underneath his hips. I roll a condom on with shaking hands and lean over him, the head of my dick resting against his hole. I put my forehead into the crook of his neck.

“Simon,” he says again, “I love these.” He puts his fingertips onto my cheek, in the same place as earlier, and I realise he was talking about my moles.

“Thanks,” I say, lifting my head, “Are you okay?”

It’s weird, that this is what it’s like, with us. Always careful with each other, always correcting our behaviour, always balancing ourselves, thinking before we speak. I like it better now than how it used to be.

He reaches down underneath him, stretching, until he grabs hold of my cock. He presses me forwards, and he opens himself for me. He writhes around a bit, gasping, when the head of my cock pops inside the tight ring of muscle, and every time we do this I don’t think it can feel any better, and it always does.

“That’s so good,” he says, at the same time as I say _you’re still quite tight, Baz,_ and then he laughs and I can feel it wrapped around me. “Just go slowly,” he says, and smiles, before shifting himself more firmly onto my erection. I try and keep still, try and let him set the pace, and it’s not hard because I don’t ever want to hurt him.

“Oh my God,” I say, even though I never really say that, when I bottom out inside of him, my balls pressing against his skin. He kisses my temples.

“Move,” he says, “Simon,”

He says my name a lot more when I _do_ move, trying really hard to get his prostate with every stroke back inside, but it’s difficult because he keeps moving and wriggling and sometimes even laughing.

I feel like laughing too, it feels so good to have him so close to me. I push in, deep, and punch my own breath out. I pull out, almost all the way, and thrust back inside, slowly, so slowly, so he can feel everything.

His hands on my shoulders and his voice in my ear urge _faster, faster,_ so I go faster. He’s tight, and _warm,_ and his hands are all over me and when he comes I can feel his muscles contracting. He tells me he loves me, again, and it’s terrible that it makes me come, because what if Baz telling me he loves me is the only thing that can make me come for the rest of my life. Would that be bad? I feel like it would be good.

He lies there, panting and smiling up at me as though I’m the only thing in the room, as though I’m the only thing in the world.

“I love you,” I tell him, as I slip out and he closes his legs. “I love you,” I tell him, as I take the pillows from underneath him and throw them onto the floor when I realise that they’re covered in the expensive lube. “I love you,” I tell him, as he laughs and wraps his arms around me and wrestles me onto my back and tells me to _shower later._

 _I love you,_ I think later, when it’s dark and he’s beside me and he’s whispering about how he’s always been obsessed with my moles. And I’m too tired to say it out loud but I press my lips against his shoulder, briefly, and his breath hitches as if I’ve said it, and I know he heard me.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first snowbaz fic, and I know it's really syrupy but I'm in the middle of writing this Drarry fic at the moment that is getting out-of-control angsty. So here's some sweet boys being sweet with each other to make us all feel better. Find me on [tumblr](http://seefin.tumblr.com), where I don't post any snowbaz at all xxx


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